Of All the Gin Joints
by Divine Sally Bowles
Summary: A noir AU. Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? The Doctor is going to find out when he tries to get Rose out from under the thumb of her controlling significant other.


**A/N: This was written for Challenge 76, Noir, over at Livejournal's _then_theres_us_. I apologize to _Casablanca_ and make no claim to the lyrics I quote herein. There may or may not be more of this 'verse in the future! Have fun with it!**

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><p><em>You must remember this<br>A kiss is just a kiss  
>A sigh is just a sigh<br>The fundamental things apply  
>As time goes by.<em>

- Herman Hupfeld

Of All the Gin Joints

I.

"You're cut off, Harkness," the bartender said curtly as Jack drained his mug to the dregs.

"Aww, come on, Doc," Jack Harkness wheedled, his slight slur the only discernible sign of his inebriation. He was better at holding his liquor than any of the patrons the Doctor's club had ever seen, and that was saying a lot. "At least until last call."

"You're welcome to stay, but you need to lay off the sauce or you'll be flat on your arse by last call."

"Nothing new for him," Noble said with a devious grin as she carried some empty glasses to the bar, plunking them down in a row, four in all. She'd been working as his barmaid for roughly four months—a pittance compared to the years he'd been running the place—and he could grudgingly admit that things were more efficient with her around. Gossipy as she was, Donna Noble had a good heart and a strong work ethic. It was rare enough to find in their town and he knew it.

"He was flat on his arse last night with Janice Law on t—"

"Enough, Noble; I don't need t' hear it." The Doctor pointed to patrons still waiting to be served and tables still waiting to be cleaned. They were down to their last customers—Harkness was the only one at the bar; two couples lingered at the tables. They'd soon be closing and cleaning up. To get a head start, Noble laughed and went back to work.

"Mark my words, Doc—someday I'll get in with that one," Harkness said, lasciviously as ever, his eyes lingering on Noble as she bent to wipe down a table.

The Doctor snorted in a rare show of amusement. He knew Harkness had been invalided home from the RAF, had a whole host of issues (two years of memories he preferred not to discuss, for one thing)—but he was truly mental if he thought he'd get anywhere with one Donna Noble. "You haven't got a chance. She'd eat you alive."

"But it'd be one helluva way to go. She'd a redhead, Doc; fiery, passionate… dunno why I'm telling you; haven't seen you show interest in a woman since I've been coming here."

The door banged open and then shut, and in walked the pair of them. A scrawny blonde bloke in an impressively tailored suit, with his arm draped possessively around a woman, also blonde, her hair in tight curls. Her dress was redder than a poppy flower and tighter than it had any right to be, and her expression was set decidedly in a sort of grimace as the man led her to a seat. The Doctor couldn't tell from his angle, but it looked like he _made_ her sit, pressing down on her shoulder until her legs folded and she crumpled into the seat.

Harkness watched their progress before turning back to the Doctor. The man's eyes—blue and normally icy, hard—were unusually soft and fixed on the woman. "Speak of the devil," Harkness murmured, licking a finger and running it absently around the rim of his mug.

The blonde man approached the bar and laid down a bill, apparently because he had money to lose and no time to quibble over actual prices. "Whiskey. Neat. Rum and coke for the girl."

"I think 'the girl' can order for herself. Besides that, I'm sure she has a name she'd like to be called," the Doctor countered, and Harkness coughed a warning.

The man looked over his shoulder and barked, "_Rose_. We're leaving. This _gentleman_ chooses to ignore the wishes of his patrons." He crumpled the bill in his hand and then drew it back off the bar and into the pocket of his suit jacket. He leveled a glare at the Doctor. "You'd do well not to antagonize me, sir. Keep in mind that I can shut you down."

He left with the blonde at his heels. She cast a glance over her shoulder—and right at the Doctor. And then she looked away.

"Bad move, Doc," Harkness volunteered as the door swung shut again. "Now _there's_ a guy you don't want to piss off."

"You know him?" Harkness had been in town for six months and drinking at the Doctor's club for four of them.

Harkness nodded. "Was drinking at his place before they banned me—in my defense, she did _not_ look underage. He runs the place three blocks over." He stabbed a thumb in that general direction. "Big Bad Wolf, or something like that. Almost as bad as the name you picked out for this place. The Oncoming Storm, Doc? Really?"

"Long story," the Doctor said distractedly. "The girl—Rose. Why's she with him?"

"_She_ is the main attraction. Best set of pipes I've heard this side of the USO. From what I heard, he pulled her off the street, gave her a job. Been with him ever since." Harkness picked up his glass and looked through it, as if inspecting it for dirt. "I've seen him beat the shit out of a guy just for looking at her. Be careful, Doc. I mean it."

"Fantastic," the Doctor muttered darkly.

II.

He always took care of business during the day, before the crush of people that inevitably lined up around nine o'clock most nights. Accounting, cleaning, any number of things—anything to make Noble's load lighter. She had an ailing grandfather to support and a mother who was none too kind about her daughter's chosen profession.

The next morning, the doors were locked, and he wasn't expecting any visitors. Nevertheless, one walked in as he was sweeping the floor, and he followed the long legs in his field of vision all the way up their owner's torso.

"Door was locked," he said, somewhat dumbly.

"You're right; the door _was_ locked." Rose tossed a mangled hairpin onto the table nearest them. "Not anymore."

"Shouldn't you be at the Big Bad Wolf? Rehearsing?"

"So you've found out who I am." A wily smile dimpling her cheeks, one thick dark eyebrow arching. "I am the Bad Wolf, Doctor. They don't go on without me."

"Your… man, then. Where is he?" He chose not to be unnerved by her knowing his name.

"He's not mine any more than I am his. And he doesn't know I'm here."

She was wearing another damnably tight dress, black this time. She had no clutch or purse on hand, and thus the bill she placed on the table by the hairpin was produced from between her breasts. He had to drag his gaze away from the exposed skin, pale and round and so damn enticing. The spark in those brown eyes told him she knew he'd been watching—had done it on purpose, for all he knew.

"Wanted to pay you back for last night. Rude of him to scarper off like he did," she explained. "Cost you two customers."

"'M not lacking in them."

"So we can tell, if the crowd we get—or _don't_ get, really—at the Wolf is any indication."

"Happens when you set up a business in occupied territory, so to speak." He leaned the broom against the table and discreetly wiped his damp palms on the leather of his jacket. "Is there a reason he doesn't let you talk?"

"He doesn't let me do a lot of things, Doctor. And I let him think he has me. Just like I let myself think I'll leave him someday." She waved a hand, crimson red fingernails glinting with light reflected from the ceiling fixtures. "Little lies we tell ourselves. Never did anybody harm."

She nodded to the money and turned to go. "Just wanted to give you that. I'll be off."

She was nearly at the door before he stopped her. "I never caught your last name?" he called.

"I never dropped it," she called back over her shoulder. The sway of her hips was definitely a sight. "Tyler. Rose Tyler."

And the Bad Wolf left his bar.

III.

She came back a few more times. Always with that coy grin, always tempting him to ask her to stay.

Once or twice, he noticed it—just a flash of fear in her eyes any time he mentioned her man. It made his fingers clench, itching to fight him—what right did he have to almost imprison her?

But he kept calm, objective. He could bide his time.

After closing, a good four weeks after the first time Rose Tyler walked into the club, the Doctor was wiping down the bar as Noble got ready to leave. As ever, she was walking Harkness, who was waiting by the door, home—it was a compromise they'd reached after the Doctor had insisted he wouldn't have a woman walking home, in the dark, on her own, despite her vehement protests that she could take care of herself.

She was coming out of the back room, putting on her coat, as she heard it—muffled but loud voices from outside, a definite domestic. They weren't uncommon.

What was uncommon was the sound of a woman's scream.

"Doctor!" she hollered as she ran to the bar, jerking her head back to towards the door leading to the alley. "Domestic outside—I think the woman's in—"

The Doctor had already vaulted over the bar just at the word "domestic," the leather jacket he wore even indoors flapping behind him. Harkness was close at his heels, and Noble followed as they went out the front door, so as not to be seen immediately, and around to the alley.

The blond man had a hold on Rose Tyler. She was fighting him tooth and nail, but with one hand at her throat and another at the front of her dress, he had the advantage. The fabric he had twisted in his hand tore, exposing the edge of her slip, as well as a glimpse of her breasts in a lacy red bra, a sight the Doctor and Harkness would surely have appreciated under different circumstances.

"I _knew_ you were coming here," the man spat, pressing harder at her throat. "You ungrateful, scheming little—"

"_Oi!"_ Noble shouted, not standing for that type of talk, and it distracted him just enough. Harkness dove, using his momentum to knock the man to the ground and pin him. Noble went immediately to Rose, pulling her away from the madness and helping her straighten her town dress, to preserve what little dignity she had left.

The Doctor nodded at her to get Rose inside, and when Noble nodded back grimly and obeyed, he stalked further into the alleyway. The man had struggled to his feet, though Harkness still had his arms pinned behind him.

"Who are you, then?" the Doctor demanded, close enough that he could smell the man's breath, hot and reeking of whiskey. "What do you have on her that keeps her with you?"

"They call you the Doctor," the man said with a smirk, cold and hard and malicious. "Well, then, let's call me what I am to her. Let's call me the Master."

For some reason the name sent a shudder down his spine. He ignored it, spitting out the name. "All right, then. _Master_. What do you want with—?"

"The Doctor," the Master drawled, almost challenging him. "So called because you fix everyone's problems, don't you? Everybody goes to The Oncoming Storm. Dear Doctor, will you get me out of the country? Dear Doctor, will you deliver this message? Dear Doctor, can you wrangle the Big—Bad—Wolf?"

At each word he threw himself forward, closer to the Doctor, but Harkness dug his heels into the ground and held tighter. Breathing heavier, the Master gave him a smirk, muscles bulging in his neck, sweat streaking his face. "Go on, Doctor. You can take her. But I warn you, I never learned to play nice. I don't think I'll like sharing my toys. Remember that."

IV.

They escorted the Master back to the Big Bad Wolf. When they returned, Noble was sitting at the bar with Rose, who had Noble's coat draped over her skinnier shoulders. Even in the shadow cast by the coat, the Doctor could see a ring of bruises around her throat, some blood matted in shining hair.

He nodded to Harkness, who gave him a wordless salute and went to Noble. Rose handed her the coat and gave her a quiet thank you. Noble nodded and patted her shoulder, nothing but sympathy in her gaze.

"Let's get you cleaned up," the Doctor said as Harkness and Noble left the club. He led her upstairs to the flat over the bar—hardly more than a closet, but home.

"You have space to move in here?" Rose asked with a clipped laugh as he turned on the lights. Fear lingered on her face when he looked back.

"It's bigger on the inside," he quipped, and the shadow of a smile ghosted her face.

As he went back down to the bar to get ice for her throat, she wandered his flat, picking up knickknacks and books. The coffee table in front of the sofa (made up with a pillow and blanket, as though he slept there often) was laden with books on space and history. Beside them, an old-fashioned fob watch.

Funny, she thought. The Master had one, too.

She stepped out of her dress, leaving it pooled on the floor. Perhaps she could patch it up, but for now, it was the only reminder of the night so far that she could get rid of by herself. Bruises could be iced and blood could be washed out with an effort, but the dress she could take off and be done with.

If the Doctor felt any surprise at finding her in her slip and undergarments when he returned, he didn't say a word. He merely nodded to the miniscule bathroom. On the sink counter he laid out a towel with ice rolled in it for her throat, so she could bend and rest on it to have her hair rinsed out. He stepped behind her and turned on the sink, working the knobs until the water was warm.

"I owe you and your friends an apology," she said, giving him an apologetic grimace that he could not see. "I didn't think he knew… well, I figured he'd guess, but he doesn't normally do what he… did back there in public." She swallowed, trying to ignore the pain it caused in her throat. "You should take it as a compliment."

He chuckled darkly as he kneaded his fingers through her hair, trying to be gentle as he rinsed the blood out, the water pouring into the drain stained faintly pink. "Why would I? He hurt you because of me, Rose."

"Exactly." She reached back with one hand and found part of his jacket, gripping the leather and giving it a gentle tug. "He's threatened by you."

The blood was gone, and he shut off the faucet, handing her a towel to wring her hair dry and vacating the bathroom, giving her space. When she emerged, he was sitting at one end of the sofa, and she sat at the other.

"D'you have a name besides the Doctor?" she asked, playing her fingers lightly, distractedly, at the hem of her slip.

"I do."

"But you don't use it."

"Yes."

"Don't, or can't?"

"Both." He finally met her gaze, and for the first time, she noticed it—a long history hidden in that icy blue, the weight of many years. "I can't go back to where I'm from. So I came here, opened this place."

A faint smile lingered on her face, as if reluctant to go, despite the sadness that tinged her next words. "I haven't got a home to go back to, either. Dad died in an accident when I was younger. Mum ran off with a sailor." She turned that smile on him. "We're the same, you and me."

She took the ice from her throat, setting it down on the table. She touched the tender spot by her scalp, wincing. "My head is killing me, damn him…"

The Doctor had closed the distance between them almost tentatively. No fear remained in her countenance, and when she looked up at him, it was with a certain kind of eagerness.

"I think I need a Doctor," she murmured with a teasing glint in those brown eyes, as his lips pressed against hers.

V.

Hands at the hem of his jumper, tugging, lifting, removing.

Straps of her slip being pushed off her shoulders. Stepping out of it and leaving it on the floor.

Impatient fingers undoing the hooks of her bra, slipping it off and cupping her breasts.

Long legs straddling him and pushing him flat on his back on the sofa. Knees pressing insistently into his hips.

Her hands undoing his belt and trousers, removing everything on him and then her panties.

Warmth consuming the both of them and filling the rest of the night.

VI.

It turned out that although Rose Tyler had been nothing but the main attraction over at the Big Bad Wolf, she was more than capable of tending bar. She attributed her knowledge to another of her mum's apparently numerous suitors.

Whatever the case, he was glad for the extra pair of hands. Three months after his and Rose's first night together, Noble requested the night off, and Harkness, for the first time in eight months, was not giving the Doctor his patronage. He had a suspicion Noble was taking Harkness home to meet her mother and grandfather, if the number of times Harkness had come in smelling of her perfume was any indication of the seriousness of their relationship.

After hours, as they were washing the glasses and dishes, Rose squeezed past him behind the bar as she rummaged around for another washcloth. "You know what else besides your flat needs to be 'bigger on the inside'?" she mocked lightly, knowing from three months of living in said flat that it was really anything but. "The space behind her… blimey, Doctor, any closer and it could be adultery."

"Thought it already was," the Doctor said smoothly, which made her laugh. The Doctor was so relieved to hear her laugh—it had taken her some time to be at ease in his presence, or in the presence of any man, really. But the Doctor hadn't pushed her, Harkness had reeled himself in, and Noble had lent a kind ear and a woman's perspective on the situation. Between the three of them, she was safe.

"No luck on another washcloth," she called over her shoulder as she pushed the wooden door open and came out from behind the bar. "Back room?"

"Should be," he called back.

She nodded as she made her way to the back room and opened the door.

She heard it first—fingers tapping out a rhythm, the drum beat to one of her songs back at the Big Bad Wolf. She was about to scream when the drumming stopped, when one arm looped around her waist and gripped her tight, while the other covered her mouth.

"_Don't. Scream,_" the Master hissed, removing the hand over her mouth when she nodded. "That's a good girl," he cooed mockingly, pressing something cold and hard into her back and kicking at her ankles. "Now walk."

VII.

The sound of Rose's heels clicking on the concrete floor was what made the Doctor look up from the glass he'd been cleaning. Normally she would shout that the mission to the back room had been a success, or she'd tease him over some little thing she'd seemingly pick out of thin air. Tonight, she made no sound during her approach, and when he looked up, he dropped the glass.

The Master had moved the gun from Rose's back and was now holding one of his arms out in front of her, pointing it straight at the Doctor. The same taunting grimace he'd worn the last time twisted his lips. "You didn't _really_ think I'd let her go, did you? I play to win, Doctor, and I told you… I don't like sharing. You, the solider, and the barmaid, you've had your months of playing house—the Three Little Pigs and the Bad Wolf. Playtime's over, Doctor. She'll come when I call."

"I'll go," Rose choked, twisting in his grip even as he pressed his arm harder into her waist. "As long as you don't hurt him, I'll—"

"Rose, don't," the Doctor said sharply, stepping out from behind the bar. "I won't have you sacrificing yourself for me."

"You think I want it the other way 'round?" Rose asked desperately, angrily, and the Master jerked the arm restraining her to shut her up.

"Having a domestic, are we? Just like the one you so kindly interrupted three months ago, Doctor," the Master chuckled, amused. "No one should have to sacrifice themselves. Actually, that's too easy."

He let Rose go, and she scrambled away from the two of them on instinct, her breaths heaving in her chest and making it hurt. She wanted to go to the Doctor, but the look in his eyes, it frightened her—that same darkly predatory look that gleamed in the Master's eyes at his worst moments.

"No, you won't have to sacrifice yourself, Doctor. What I want is for you—"

The Doctor never let him finish, lunging—stupidly, desperately, absolutely without abandon—towards the Master, a jagged piece of glass from the broken mug clenched between two fingers. Last resorts, she supposed—what else was he supposed to use?

And he might've been able to overpower him if the Master hadn't fired the gun.

"_Doctor!"_

She hated the way her voice shook, hated the way tears blurred her vision and constricted her throat. She hated the sound his body made as he crashed to the floor, hated the way dark red blood, sticky and warm and spreading too quickly for her liking, soaked the leather of his jacket, hated the way the Master stood over his body and kept _laughing_.

"I was _going_ to say we could fight for her, but then, you knew that, didn't you? A word of advice, Doctor, the man with the gun always has the upper hand—"

"Yeah?" Rose breathed into his ear as she wrapped her arms around his waist, prying the gun from his fingers with shaking hands and pressing it into his back before he could even react. He spun on his heel to face her, about to rip his gun from her hands before he saw her eyes, filled with more malice than he ever would have expected.

She adjusted her finger on the trigger, still shaking but holding his gaze unflinchingly. "You took advantage of me. You saw that I had nothing and you exploited that, you sick, _twisted_—"

"Rose, you don't want to do this, do you?" he asked, voice still as smooth as ever, though she saw his eyes flicker down to the gun she'd trained at his chest. "I didn't take anything from you. I _gave_ you—"

"You _gave_ me nothing but bruises. And I've got the gun, so I have the upper hand on that now, yeah?" she said darkly, unable to help her gaze flickering to the Doctor, still lying on the floor, eyes half-lidded. The bleeding had slowed—was that good or bad?

She stepped closer, shoving the gun against his chest, right at his heart. This time, the flicker of fear was more than just a flicker; it was a veritable beacon.

"Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?" she whispered, her breath tickling against his ear as she leaned in. "_Say it._ Who's afraid of the Big, Bad—"

"_I am!"_ he shouted wildly as she tightened her finger on the trigger, as he tried desperately to assuage her. "I am, I am—"

And she shot the gun.

The impact threw him back and made her collapse against the bar on unsteady legs—it was already a risky proposition, firing a shot in heels, and the kickback wrenched through her arms and the rest of her body. When she could move, she looked at her handiwork—the Master, on the floor, bleeding out and practically begging for mercy with his last breaths.

"Go to hell," she whispered, and collapsed to her knees beside the Doctor.

VIII.

The bullet had only grazed the Doctor's shoulder. It was knocking his head against the concrete floor that had made him pass out, and when all was said and done, he only needed a bandage and perhaps a replacement jacket.

The cops, fortunately, agreed to look the other way about the Master. They'd already known he had his fingers dipped into several areas of the crime underworld, and Rose was more than willing to give details of what he'd done to her and others. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense, they said. Nothing further. She could go on and live her life.

When the Doctor woke the next morning, it was to the ghost of a kiss on his forehead and a note on the coffee table.

_Doctor,_

_I'll be gone by the time you read this. Believe me, I wish I didn't have to be. But after last night, I think it's the only thing I can do._

_ No matter what the police said, it's going to get out that he's dead—how could it not?—and that I did it. Strongest motive and all of that. And I can't put you in danger, Doctor. I won't._

_ But we were good together, yeah? Better than that—we were fantastic._

_ Give my love to Donna and Jack, and thank them for everything._

_ I hope you don't mind if I borrow your car—no other options. How'd you manage that, with the blue? It's gorgeous._

_ Have a great life, Doctor. I mean it._

_ xx. Rose_

_Now all I have's this anguished heart  
>'Cause you have vanished, too<br>Oh, my girl, my girl, my precious girl  
>Just what is this man to do?<em>  
>- Murray Gold<p> 


End file.
